


Disposable

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:36:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The difference between Michael and Eddie is one of respect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disposable

_Silverstone, 2000_

I don't like Silverstone, but then, the feeling's mutual. It doesn't like me, either.

I once heard it said that the tracks were living entities. It's funny, but I can almost understand it. Sometimes when I'm at home, we take the kids into the mountains and spend all day in a pasture, like extras from _Heidi_. Corinna takes care of them, and they chase butterflies and crawl through cowpats, shrieking and yelling. I lie back in the grass and look up at the peaks far above me, and beneath me I feel the earth breathe, and then I feel at one with the world and with myself.

But the earth is not a racetrack. The only life I've seen at a circuit is in the pits. There's none of this mystical connection between driver and track that some people like to claim exists. The circuit is a killing ground: every year, the cars slaughter small animals and birds in the hundreds. And occasionally, they'll slaughter humans, too.

It's one thing to destroy the opposition with track position, but it's something else entirely when the track decides to take a hand in the destruction. Oh yes, a good driver will learn the location of each tricky bump and slippery kerb, and will use it to the detriment of the rest of the pack; but it doesn't always work that way.

I discovered that the year I broke my leg. Or rather, Silverstone broke my leg. It had to be here, didn't it? In the country where the tabloid press enjoy vilifying me, printing photographs of me wearing a Hun's helmet, where old wounds are encouraged to fester, and where I am perceived almost unanimously as a robot. They saw some blood that day, but not nearly enough to satisfy them. It was something though: a sacrifice, a gesture that suggested that nothing ever went to plan. Fate wore a wry little smile back then.

Now I slip from the pit-lane exit and start to walk the circuit. At this time of morning there are shadows on the track, and a few oil-stains that I know the marshals will clear away before the sun climbs any higher. Out beyond the perimeter fence, a few fans have already taken their seats. Distantly I hear a few shouts, but I can't tell whether they're friendly or hostile. I lift a hand in response anyway, and after a moment the shouting stops.

On the approach to Stowe I see it. At first I think it's heat-haze, but it's not warm enough to produce such an effect. Then I think it's just a fault in the surfacing, although I know from endless laps around this circuit that there are no wavering bumps at this point. And so I have to acknowledge that what I'm seeing is something else: it's the track breathing.

I stand for a moment and watch it. From my feet to the corner it runs, an undulation, a sigh. Everything – the tarmac, the grass, the gravel – it all seems to shiver. There's a breeze, I notice, and it flattens the grass scant seconds after the wave of movement has passed through. A silence descends, and I can hear the gravel shifting slightly. Is the wind strong enough to move it, or was it something else?

I shake off my irrational fear and walk forwards, telling myself that it is merely the recollection of the accident that is unnerving me. Into Stowe, and I know I should walk on, ignore the desire to linger, but it is too strong. I pause, look down at the kerb and then beyond to the gravel, and I imagine my flight across it. How did it look to those watching? Were any of them frightened for me?

It was too quick for me to feel fear. That came later. These days I doubt if Ralf was afraid: perhaps some glimmer of terror, for the sake of blood-ties, but nothing else. Mika, David, Jacques and the others… possibly they had a moment of _schadenfreude_ , but they were racing and that tends to give a man tunnel vision. So no, they probably didn't care. Jean Todt cared, he and the guys in the team, but then he would, wouldn't he. They weren't afraid for me; they were afraid for Ferrari…

My right leg is aching. It's a vague, niggling pain. Usually I don't feel it, but today, in this place, it aches enough for me to flex my foot, just to check that I can move my leg all the way from ankle to hip. Satisfied, I sink into a crouch and examine the chips of gravel that once I ploughed through at 200mph.

"Lost your wallet?"

I don't need to turn around to know who's standing behind me. The accent – lilting, amused – is enough.

"You know I always keep it at the hotel," I say, staying where I am.

"Sure." Eddie leaves the track and crunches over the gravel. "First one out of the taxi, last one into the bar, that's how Martin described you. And for the most part it's true, isn't it? That's one of the things I really don't get about you, Mike: why you're such a stingy bastard."

I pick up a handful of gravel, wondering if the earth will breathe again if I do so. It doesn't move.

"Maybe I was Scottish in a previous life," I say, and this makes Eddie laugh. He's accused me of being tight with money before now, and so this has become my standard response. It still makes him laugh, though.

"David splashes his cash," Eddie says. "God knows what he was in a previous life."

"Don't tempt me. I might have to answer that." I begin to sieve the gravel through my fingers, and it falls back to the ground with little plocking sounds. Eddie stops laughing and watches me, as if what I'm doing is the most fascinating thing in the world.

"You said that was one of the things you didn't understand about me," I say after a moment. "What are the others?"

"Aww, fuck." I can picture his sheepish grin even though I'm still looking down. "Lots of things, really. But at the moment, I want to know why you don't like letting things go."

I open my fingers wide and let the remainder of the gravel slide off. Letting go.

"I could have died here."

"Yeah, but you didn't." Eddie sounds impatient. "You know, you talk a lot of shite about how things have little or no meaning for you – like who your team-mate is, or the history of Ferrari, that sort of stuff – and yet you keep a lot of things in."

At last I stand up, but I keep my gaze fixed to the tyre-barriers where my car eventually came to rest.

"I keep personal stuff inside," I say vaguely. "The rest I really don't care about."

"What about me?" he asks, and for the first time I hear a note of longing in his voice.

I turn and face him. "You were my team-mate."

"I was your lover."

I shrug. "Past tense. History will know you as my team-mate, though; and you know how I feel about my team-mates."

"Yeah," Eddie says. "We're all fucking disposable."

He keeps his voice neutral when he says it, and his eyes are covered with sunglasses. I don't know if I've hurt him again or not. He's not one to cry for long before he finds himself a new playmate. And I…

The earth undulates again. This time I notice the black weeping ooze from the edge of the track. I brush past Eddie and go towards it, scuffing my foot into the tar. He follows me: dogged and silent.

"Did you see that?" I ask.

"That thing with the track? Yeah."

I'm annoyed that I can't keep the hint of panic from my tone. "What is it?"

Eddie puts his head to one side, as if he's debating whether or not to tell me. This is his home circuit, after all: he should know if there's anything supernatural about it. Not that I believe in ghosts, and anyway, this is definitely something physical.

Eventually he says, "It means the track doesn't like you."

Which is just what I thought. "Why not?" I wonder, stupidly.

He gives me a pointed look, and replies: "It's reminding you that you're disposable, too. Like we all are. Silverstone has been here longer than we have. A place like this has ghosts. Most of them are better than we ever could be. But then, you already knew that, didn't you?"

And with that, he turns and walks away, kicking a few chips of gravel along before him. I could run and catch him up, but my leg hurts too much; and so instead I stand marooned in the gravel-trap and watch him go while the sunlight chases the shadows from the track.


End file.
